


with ears so deaf I can barely hear

by sElkieNight60



Series: Dawn Breaks Through the Window [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bat Brothers, Bat Fam, Batfamily, Batfamily Feels, Bruce Wayne Acting as A Parent, Bruce Wayne has emotions, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon Typical Swearing, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Everyone Needs Therapy, Gen, Jason Todd deserves all the hugs, Jason Todd is Red Hood, No editing we die like mne, Parent Bruce Wayne, Protective Batfamily, Protective Bruce Wayne, Se.N, Some Jason Todd Whump, Swearing, Tim Drake is Red Robin, dad!bats, minor proofreading we die like mne, protective bat brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 00:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20844314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: The kid will never look at him like he looks at their eldest brother, but that is okay. They have a different kind of relationship; Jason is a different kind of brother.Right now, he is the brother Damian needs.





	with ears so deaf I can barely hear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BansheeQueen92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BansheeQueen92/gifts).

> Truly, I thought I was done with this series, but then BansheeQueen92 said, "It was an awesome story! The only loose end was that the jerk scientist got away, we can't have that lol!" and was just the most supportive person on the planet, so I had to write a third part.
> 
> ... and this was the end result? 
> 
> (It's not quite what you ordered, but the chef tried her best. Somehow this has started to become a bigger Batfam story than I anticipated.)

Perhaps due to the heat of the sweltering summer night, Gotham's criminal element has seemed slow to think and even slower to act―as though every body Jason had popped a bullet through the knee-caps of or simply zip-tied up like an early Christmas present for the GCPD, had been moving with the viscosity of pitch.

It's a nice break, Jason muses to himself, shaking out a packet of Marlboros from his pocket with one hand whilst removing his helmet with the other, seating himself on the roof ledge of the dingy, old apartment block he's found himself on.

It takes a couple of tries with his lighter―_the __one he'd laughed at when seen in the convenience store across town because it bore the picture of his Red Hood and he just _couldn't _not get it__―_but he sucks in his first drag and feels every coiled muscle release as the Nicotine wends its poison through his lungs, relaxing despite the whoosh and soft footfalls that land behind him, alerting him to the presence of another. Jason doesn't bother turning his head as Bruce's Brat―_(too light to be Tim, a gait too stilted to be Dick, must be Damian)__―_makes his way over, the boy's shadow looming over him in what he probably thinks is mildly menacing, but Jason just finds amusing.

“That habit will kill you,” the newest Robin sniffs, seating himself alongside upon the ledge, feet dangling over without fear.

Just in time, Jason catches the disgusted face Damian makes when he turns and exhales, contributing to Gotham's pollution problem with his poor health habits. He can't help but smirk as the young boy wrinkles his nose with repulsion, but he does end up putting the cigarette out before dropping it over the ledge―he's a good big brother like that.

“Been there, done that,” Jason says as he watches it fall, delighting in the expression he receives in return. “But I'm sure you didn't come here to talk about my addiction.”

Ever since the incident with Dick, Damian and he had somehow come to a sort of emotional and relational middle-ground. They'd got on well enough before―Damian had tolerated his existence and Jason, well, he'd found the kid growing on him in a weird way… _like mould, __maybe_―but after coming so close to losing their eldest brother, whose smile was like the sun and on that day had looked lifeless and dead, both of them seem to have latched to whatever concrete stability they can find.

If that means for Damian, relying on Jason's undying rage, then he is happy for it. The kid still looks an awful lot like _her―_and it sets him on edge more than he'd ever admit, but more recently he's been finding Bruce behind those eyes, rather than the boy's mother. And even more recently, he's noticed Damian picking up some of Dick's quirks, which is, well, kinda adorable, and honestly he prefers it over seeing anything of Bruce or Talia in him.

The kid will never look at him like he looks at their eldest brother, but that is okay. They have a different kind of relationship; Jason is a different kind of brother.

Right now, he is the brother Damian needs.

“Come on,” Jason finds himself sighing into the night, leaning back on his palms to stare straight upwards at the night sky. “What are you doing all the way out here, Robin?” _Especially without Batman… _Bruce doesn't know the kid is here, is all Jason can figure from the situation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the boy hunching over himself, anxiously picking at a chunk of concrete that has come loose from the roof.

More firmly, “Kid.”

Damian says nothing for a minute, then, “Red did it.” It's not an accusation, though. There's a kind of wonder, a sort of hope in those words.

The boy's still not looking at him when he continues, but Jason's glad for it because he doesn't want to frighten Damian with whatever demon of darkness seizes his facial muscles until their frozen into something passive, but deadly.

“I heard them talking about it,” he carries on. “Red Robin and Batman, I mean. They found the man… the one that hurt Nightwing―tracked him to Metropolis. They've got evidence against him too, not just for the stuff he did to G―_Nightwing_.”

Every muscle in Jason's body goes rigid again. Tight, tense, coiled.

“Batman said not to pursue him…” Damian spits vitriolically, angrily flicking the rock off the roof with his index finger, but the boy looks more than eager to disobey that order. _Rule breakers, that is what they are. Their kind has to stick together._ “He… he got himself a job as an anaesthetist working in Mid-Metro Heart Hospital, apparently.”

“I see.” Jason sighs cryptically, guarding his reaction closely.

It's not what Damian was expecting, obviously, if the noticeably violent way the boy's head snaps up is anything to go by.

“That's _it?” _The kid hisses, to which Jason has to hold back a smirk. “You're not going to _do _anything about it?”

“Depends.” He says.

Damian's eyes narrow under the domino mask. “On what?” He replies.

Finally, Jason allows his smirk to seep through to the corners of his lips, like a blossoming bloodstain. There is no mirth in it, only vengeance.

“You going in half-cocked or you got a plan?”

The boy snorts, “I've been planning this since the day _you _let him escape.”

Jason doesn't rise to the bait, but he quirks an eyebrow and Damian has the common sense to look part-way apologetic for his goading―though not enough to actually apologise.

Red Hood retracts his legs from the edge of the building and secures his helmet upon his head before turning back to the young boy and replying, “Then let's make sure we do this _right_.”

Damian nods and the grin that spreads across his face is almost as blood-thirsty. _Oh no, _Jason recognises too late. _That's __Damian's assassin-baby grin. _God, if that's the look Batman's Robins are wearing these days, they should possibly all consider some sort of therapy.

_This could be the start of something beautiful_, Red Hood thinks to himself even as he dismisses the kid with a, “Later, Bat-Brat” and launches himself off the building with a well-aimed grapple. _This could be _fun.

_ _ _ _

Jason has no qualms about going behind Bruce's back with Damian's crusade for justice―or at least he convinces himself of that enough times that he hardly notices suppressing the niggling doubt in the back of his mind anymore… until he meets Bruce's laughing eyes across the table one Sunday afternoon.

Though Jason can't quite remember how or when he got himself roped in on it, somehow, since Bruce had started taking Dick to his therapy session on a Sunday morning, Sunday lunch has become a regular thing.

Which… Jason finds he kind of doesn't mind.

Or at least until he meets the mirth in Bruce's eyes and has to tear his own gaze away out of guilt, only noticing the duller quality the older man's face has about it when he dares to look up again. Half of him hates that he puts that expression there, half of him wants to dance around naked in raw flames at seeing it. It's 50/50 on any given day.

Still, they've been making progress… according to Dick, anyway. Jason doesn't see it. Bruce still looks at him like he is the manifestation of a walking memorial, but… perhaps not as much as he used to.

Still, he thinks, the man would never address their divide, emotions of that scope would probably kill him. And sure enough, when Jason can swallow past the lump of shame in his throat long enough to glance around the table, that morose, albeit thoughtful, look is the mask Bruce has donned.

What he doesn't expect is for Dick to do something about it. Though, truly, he probably should have. It is _Dick, _after all.

“So,” his eldest brother begins anew, sparing glances toward both Tim and Damian and holding their gazes long enough to give the impression that he's talking to them, rather than to Bruce and Jason. “You'll never guess what Alfred managed to do.”

Tim pops a roast potato in his mouth and around it conversationally asks, “What?”

A grin slides onto Dick's face.

“The impossible.”

Damian sounds annoyed, but Jason knows from experience that it is just the boy's regular tone, “Just tell us, Grayson.”

The smile on Dick's face only stretches further as his eyes glance up to meet Bruce, sitting at the opposite end of the table, gaze nor voice wavering as he speaks with a tone full of pride.

“Alfred convinced Bruce to visit my psychologist.”

Jason nearly loses his soda-pop up his nose. Everyone's gaze goes to Bruce. The man in question looks more uncomfortable than Jason's ever seen.

“It… it was just one visit,” he says abruptly, keeping his tone sharp in order to escape any emotional quiver that might go along with it as he lowers his gaze to the steak-knife in hand. “Nothing to get excited over.”

Tim ignores the order and, in fact, does get excited over it.

“That's wonderful, Bruce!” He says, smiling.

Even Damian, who Jason's pretty sure doesn't even know what a psychologist does, (other than help his oldest brother out every Sunday) looks as though he too might start smiling. “Congratulations, Father.”

Bruce looks a bit sheepish at the outpouring of emotion, but is saved from having to say anything else when Dick jokes, “Who knows, maybe we can get Alfred to convince Jason to give it a shot too.”

With the attention moving to him, Jason doesn't get much time to wish he had the Kryptonian superpower of lazer-beam eyes to direct at his brother.

“I prefer to shoot my problems,” he says instead, revelling in the way Bruce's brow knits together. It doesn't get the reaction he'd hoped from the older man―_better to start an argument than face scrutiny__―_but sometimes (see: rarely), even Bruce has a sliver of patience for him.

What comes out of Bruce's mouth next is clearly not what any of them are expecting, if the way Tim fumbles with his fork is anything to go by. It jerks Jason out of the hazy fog he hadn't noticed himself sinking into, at the very least.

“… does having firearms on your person make you feel safe, Jason?” Bruce asks, sounding so genuine that Jason just can't find it within himself to tear his gaze away this time. The words are soft, tentative. Jason's brain fries out at the tone and then promptly has to reboot itself in order to squint across the table.He's just not quite sure how to answer that.

Fortunately (or unfortunately?), Bruce carries on before the silence between them settles too long to be called awkward.

“Do guns make you feel… in control?” There's a beat where everyone is clearly wondering what spurred this. Jason wants to get up and walk away before he can find out, but he finds himself glued to the chair with legs made of jelly.

“I spent my hour with Dick's therapist talking about you kids,” he starts to explain, though the fact that Bruce is explaining _anything_ at all is kind of a world-ending wonder in and of itself. “I asked her if she had any advice and she asked me what it was about the four of you that had me so worried.”

Jason's seen Bruce worried before, he just never imagined the man speaking about it to a civvie, (or, no, another super or member of the Justice League, perhaps. _Maybe one with a real degree and everything_).

“So I started explaining to her,” the man continues, gaze switching between the four of them. “Just about the little things… or perhaps in some cases, the little things that were once big things…”

Bruce's piercing stare goes to Damian first and the boy looks a little like he's been caught unawares in the spotlight―until Dick surreptitiously pokes his forearm and the kid suddenly remembers to school his face into something neutral.

“I'm scared your temper is going to get you into trouble one day,” Bruce says, looking tired but persistent, addressing Damian as though he is the only one in the room, tone of the kind only used when one of the Robins' was injured. Bruce's gaze switches to Tim as he continues, “And I'm frightened that you'll end up working yourself to death if I don't keep both eyes on you at all times, I do a poor enough job looking out for your coffee addiction as it is.”

Finally, Bruce's eyes dance over to Jason, the undisguised pain in them as raw as blistered skin as he admits, “I'm terrified I'm going to lose you again. I fear somebody is going to come at you with bigger guns than your own one day and you won't call for back up.”

The words are off Jason's tongue before he can check them on the way out.

“I wouldn't do that to you, B,” and he means it, even if he instantly regrets admitting it, half-heartedly deflecting some of the emotion in it by turning to his brothers and adding, “I wouldn't do that to any of you.”

Bruce looks surprised by the statement, but it doesn't stop him from returning to his original question.

“So the firearms,” he says, pinning Jason with a look that is ninety percent seriousness and ten percent in-coming defeat. “Does having them make you feel safe?”

And at this point, Jason knows to answer with nothing but honesty.

“Yes,” he mutters, barely noticing the way his voice cracks and the sound cuts out. “They do.”

The man at the head of the table sighs, but there's no sign of disappointment in the lines of his muscles, which… confuses him.

“Then,” Bruce swallows as his eyebrows come together―and it's clear that nobody is quite sure what to do with that look. “Then I will try to accept your use of them.”

A minute passes where Jason's sure he's just hallucinated.

“Excuse me?” he says, still not sure he hasn't passed out or something of the equivalent and now he's just imagining some fucked up shit like Bruce being okay with him using guns in the field.

The other man appears to back-pedal somewhat and goes to address whatever it is he thinks Jason is hooked up on about this situation.

“Don't misunderstand me,” he returns, the serious expression returning, clouded darkly by the slightest hint of something else there too. “I won't accept you killing anyone, that is still a line I refuse to cross, but as long as it's not fatal…” he trails off then, allowing Jason to fill in the blanks in his own mind.

It takes only a second before Jason is turning to Dick, who for some reason is looking far too smug for his own damn good _and Bruce didn't say anything about not punching his self-satisfied looking brother in the face, did he?_

“Some therapist,” he says with mostly disbelief and the faintest hint of humour, to which Dick nods and his grin increases. “Maybe you're right―perhaps I should get her number.”

Bruce isn't winning any Father of the Year awards, not in Jason's world, but… perhaps he's starting to inch a little closer.

_ _ _ _

So it's the slow grains of acceptance that makes the niggling voice in the back of his head grow louder, telling him he shouldn't go along with Damian's crazy assassin-child plan. Because it is crazy, he can see that from the start, but he just wants so _badly _to shove this guy in a jail cell where he can't hurt his big brother anymore, where he can't hurt _anyone _anymore.

Damian's voice cuts through the sound of Metropolis traffic and hauls him out of the pit in his stomach, clearing his mind and slicing through the distraction that is the steadily closing emotional gap between Bruce and himself. He's worked hard to maintain that distance, yet suddenly he finds he's not sure he wants it anymore.

“Todd,” the brat barks into his ear, voice clipped and curt. “Are you ready?”

Fuck.

“Yes,” he exhales shakily, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his civvies. God this plan is insane. Only Damian could come up with something like this. “I'm ready.”

The Demon-Spawn doesn't believe him.

“Are you sure?” He asks, sounding strangely worried, which he then completely ruins with his next line, “Because need I remind you that you are the only one who can successfully execute this part of the plan. I am too well known as the son of Bruce Wayne―_you_ have the luxury of being legally dead.”

Jason has to bite back a huff.

“_Yes!” _he repeats. “Let's fucking do this already.”

“Very well,” Damian's voice drops into something clinical; reminiscent of Bruce on Patrol. “Then you are clear to go.”

And Jason steps out of the alley in front of Mid-Metro Heart Hospital and _walks into the incoming traffic_.

He times it all exquisitely.

No one would know that Jason wasn't just being careless, or that it was a ploy to get seen long enough beforehand that the blue car would hit him hard enough to bruise, but not hard enough to do any actual damage.

He hears the car slam on the brakes and sees the guy at the wheel curse out of panic. Jason braces for impact and then he's suddenly rolling across the bitumen like a ragdoll down a hill.

It hurts like a bitch, but he's still conscious when he stops moving.

The man―_their target_―gets out of the vehicle, wide-eyed as though he could be the most innocent man on earth, though Jason knows this to be false.

“Shit,” the man says, jumping out of the car without a second thought, running over to where Jason lies, cataloguing how much pain he'll be in for the rest of his patrols this week. “Buddy, are you okay?”

He groans back.

The man knees beside him and Jason can see the greys in his hair that betray his age.

“I'm a doctor,” is all he says before reaching for the leg Jason is clutching for show. He puts up no protest as the guy manoeuvres it around and then eventually puffs with relief, “Nothing broken. That's good.”

He helps Jason into a sitting position and behind a façade he thanks the guy whilst internally wishing him the slowest and most painful of deaths.

“Look,” huffs the man. “I work just there―” he points to the hospital, not knowing that Jason already knew that, “―just to be safe, let me check you over inside. No charge, it's the least I can do.”

Jason puts on an affable smile and pretends he's not the son of a billionaire and is instead some poor schmuck who can't afford healthcare and thanks the guy as he hops into his car and allows the man to drive them to the basement of the building where all the doctor car parking is―_where Robin is, lying in wait._

They pull up into what is presumably the guy's assigned parking spot and get out of the car, Jason with a lot of wincing.

“I think we should just make sure it's not anything more serious than a graze,” the guy is saying, gesticulating with one hand whilst the other pockets the keys to his car. He's not watching what he's doing or where he's going, he's not paying attention to his surroundings, which is good for when Robin drops in out of nowhere like a pre-pubescent grim reaper.

“Going somewhere?” The Bat-Brat asks, and there's that little bit of Dick in his voice that makes Jason smile. This kid is gonna grow up to be alright, he thinks. As long as Dick is around to ensure that that happens.

The guy, just ahead of Jason, lets out a string of expletives and stumbles backwards a couple of paces, presumably assuming that the more distance he can get between himself and Robin is another minute he'll remain breathing. Unfortunately, what he doesn't account for is an unmasked Red Hood standing behind him.

Jason's gun is pressed up against the back of the guy's skull before he can even say _'__Holy set-up, __Batman.'_

The man goes very still at the sound of the bullet sliding into the chamber.

There's ringing silence all around, the basement car park relatively quiet for the middle of the day.

“Are you going to kill me?” the man asks in a breathy whisper, suddenly cold and clearly detached from the events happening around him.

Jason _wants _to.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't?”

“I'll give you one,” says another voice that isn't Batman, but is damn close enough.

_Oh, for the love of fucking shit not now._

Everything happens very quickly.

Robin goes in for the swing and as soon as his fist connects with the man's face―_and Jason can hear the crunch of bone from where he's standing_―the guy is out cold.

By this point, Jason has already swung around.

Without him even noticing how tense or twitchy his finger is on the trigger, the unmistakable bang of a gun goes off and he doesn't see where the bullet goes, only sees the way Dick jerks to the left and Tim drops the ground with a full-body flinch, the both of them kitted out in fully vigilante gear.

Jason's trembling hand goes very still.

Dick moves first―_and there's fury and fire on his face, but he can't find it within himself to care as he searches for a bullet wound and finds none_.

The older is in front of his face in a matter of seconds, Tim trailing behind him and glaring at the unconscious man Damian is smugly looming over.

“You _idiot!” _Dick yells as he wraps his arms around Jason's broader, taller form, the hug so tight that he feels Dick might squeeze all the air out of him if he doesn't let go soon. “You _absolute asshole!”_

“You're not hurt?” Is his reply.

Dick pulls back to meet Jason's eye and looks very much as though he wants to smack him upside the head.

“No, Jay, I'm fine,” he says instead. “But you're an idiot! It's broad daylight, we're in Metropolis and you're not even in your gear! What kind of half-baked plan was this? Don't pretend you didn't just walk in front of this guy's car, Red Robin and I _both _saw it.”

“Actually, that was my idea.” At least Damian has the sense to throw himself under the bus, though he doesn't look particularly contrite when he does it. Jason gets the sneaking suspicion his littlest brother is possibly just trying to off him, but he shakes that thought out of his head.

Dick sends a twitchy glare at the boy, declaring that they will be speaking about that later, then returns his attention to Jason.

“No one died,” he shrugs, to which Dick sends him a look that says that wasn't the point. “I wasn't even planning on shooting the guy, I just wanted to scare him a little bit. The plan was always to have Robin knock him out and then we'd zip-tie him up and leave a little present outside the Gotham precinct―we already printed out all the evidence from the Batcomputer. Well, Robin did while I had you guys distracted during dessert on Sunday.”

Nightwing releases a shaky breath and then squeezes his eyes shut briefly, reopening them as though he's forgotten something important. Dick slaps a mask over his face before Jason's even registered what's happened.

“You gonna tell B?” he asks, eyes narrowing behind the newly acquired domino mask.

Behind Dick, Tim snorts. _Yeah, he's gonna tell B..._

Jason flips him the bird by way of reply.

Somewhere to Jason's left he hears Damian huff as he stands, unconscious guy neatly zip-tied up.

“Justice has been dealt,” the kid says with a sniff. “Todd and I have made sure of that.”

Dick's eyes shoot to Robin, who's looking rightfully proud of himself, but Jason doesn't miss the way his eldest brother blanches when he sees the form of his once-torturer lying in a heap on the concrete. Through his teeth, Dick sucks in a quiet breath.

“… that's him,” he whispers through unmoving lips, sliding a foot back seemingly unconsciously.

Jason has to suppress the urge to comfort his big brother―he isn't quite sure how that would be received from him right now.

“Yep,” he says instead, popping the 'p' and breaking out into a malicious grin as he turns back to Damian. “Robin over here overheard RR and B talking about the guy in the cave―” Jason doesn't miss the foul, annoyed look Tim spares Damian, “―and since apparently Batman wanted to drop the case, we decided to take care of it ourselves.”

Dick looks torn between wanting to scold them both for fourteen years or bursting into tears and honestly, Jason's not totally sure which route he'd prefer.

Then Dick says something so non sequitur that he has to replay the words in his mind at least twice before understanding their meaning.

“You didn't kill him.”

The words are breathy and whispered, but there's a degree of awe in them that Jason just can't figure until he meets Dick's genuinely shocked gaze.

_You didn't kill him, _he says.

_You're healing_, is what he means.

Jason shrugs, not quite agreeing with the sentiment, but not wanting to ruin the moment.

“I wanted to…” he admits quietly, and this doesn't feel like the time or place to do more than skim across the top of his feelings and throw out a witty quip, but Dick's standing there with _That Look _of hope and wonderand Jason knows an explanation is required.

_Nobody's looked at him like that since… _

“I _really_ wanted to…” he repeats.

_So what had held him back?_

He barely notices Dick pressing in closer, trying to catch all his whispered words.

“But I… I knew you wouldn't want that.”

Jason feels the next words escape him in a rush, unthinking as he says them and only realising their truth and validity as they pass across his lips.

“Not because this piece of scum doesn't deserve that, or worse,” he grits out, sending a disgusted look in the vague direction of said POS. “But because I knew you wouldn't want me to…”

Jason's not _good_. So he doesn't know why Dick still looks at him like he could be.

The corners of his older brother's mouth turn up into a soft smile and his arms come up around Jason for a second time, this hug less crushing than the last.

“I'm glad,” Dick says finally, so quietly that had he not been right next to Jason's ear, he surely would have missed it. “I'm _so _glad, Jay.”

“Yeah…?” he can't stop himself from asking.

Dick squeezes him just that little bit tighter.

“Yeah,” he whispers back.

It's been a while since someone thought he could be anything but a killer, longer still since Jason thought he could skip over that path… _and doesn't that just say something about his self-image._

The tiny chuckle that breaks free of his control is the catalyst for Dick drawing back again, this time with a quirked eyebrow of confusion. Self-image. Since when has Jason had one of those?

“Sorry,” Jason quickly apologises, still feeling the laughter lines lingering on his face. Then explains, “I… I think I was serious about getting the number of that shrink off you.”

There's a warmth in Dick's returning smile that Jason's quite positive he doesn't deserve, but he basks in it anyway because Dick has always been the sun and the rest of them just gravitate towards his kindness like the planets.

“I think I can do that for you,” his older brother replies with a wink. “And hey, maybe we can all get in on it and go for some family counselling.”

Behind Jason, Damian snorts, echoing his sentiment exactly.

“Yeah, don't push your luck, Dick-wad.”

To which his older brother just grins sadistically.

_Oh no, _Jason recognises too late. _That's Dick's Idea™ face._

The four of them leave a still unconscious Asshole on the front steps of the Gotham PD with the insurmountable evidence against him in a ziplock bag. After which, Dick bundles the lot of them back into the Batmobile and dials The Cave.

Bruce picks up on the first ring, voice rough as though he is wearing the cowl, though there is no visual to go with the audio.

“Dick,” says the man gruffly, but with an unmistakable amount of relief in his voice. “You found them?”

Dick breaks out into a grin, but his eyes never leave the road as he drives.

“I got them, B.”

There's a grunt and then Batman hangs up.

“Yeah, he's _pissed_,” says Jason, hoping someone will disagree with him.

Nobody does.

_ _ _ _

They pull into The Cave met by an unhappy Bruce, sans cowl, the expected lecture beginning before Jason has even finished clambering out of the car.

“―in the middle of the day,” Bruce is growling, approaching fast with a rigidity in his shoulders that Jason has learned means nothing good. “―_Metropolis_ of all places―_know _that's out of our jurisdiction ―”

Beside him, Damian's lost the domino mask, but doesn't look particularly bothered by the chastisement. Jason wishes he could school his emotions like that too, but the closer Bruce gets, the more Jason starts to feel like a cornered animal and his side is fucking throbbing to boot.

Before he can muster up any kind of real defence, however, Bruce is manhandling both himself and Damian into a chokehold―no, a… a hug? Reflexively, Jason's hands come up around his father's back, before the action even catches up to his brain and beside him there's a definite squeak from his littlest brother.

“What on earth possessed you both to go after this guy?” Bruce is muttering into both their ears, for once the tone verging closer to worried and concerned rather than annoyed and irate. It's enough to give Jason pause and lean the tiniest amount of his weight into Bruce's shoulder.

“He hurt Grayson,” Damian says quietly, before his thoughts care to catch up to the conversation. “And you weren't going to do anything about it!”

Bruce's hold on them tightens momentarily before he releases them, and Jason refuses to mourn the loss of his father's warmth and bulk as the man pulls back and sighs, directing his attention to his youngest son.

“No, Damian,” he says, looking tired and weary beyond his years. Jason decides right then that he's never going to have children. “I just wasn't going to run off to Metropolis with half a plan and leave Gotham to fend for herself.”

Damian juts his chin out and still doesn't bother to look as though he's been scolded.

“What's the big deal?” Jason finally decides to speak up, even though the rush of air out of his lungs makes him feel more than just a little light-headed. “We got the guy. Commish will put 'im behind bars for a good while, no one got shot or died, and everyone's here to celebrate these facts?”

Jason's ears start ringing as Bruce frowns and begins his reply, “This man was dangerous, Jason. He nearly killed your brother. What if your plan had gone sideways, huh? What if you'd ended up captured too?”

The level of concern in both Bruce's eyes and voice is something he forces himself to stand above and file away for later when he's not feeling so dizzy.

“That didn't happen, though,” he replies with a scoff. And he must be feeling more light-headed than he thought, because he finishes his sentence with, “You worry too much, Dad,” and doesn't realise what he's said until it's out.

The look of surprise on the old man's face is _almost _worth it, and the tentative smile that follows it up nearly pushes Jason over the edge, but fortunately he's spared from Bruce's emotional constipation thanks to the fact that the little dots dancing across his vision finally decide to blot everything out. Jason isn't sure, but he thinks strong arms catch him before he hits the floor.

_ _ _ _

When Jason wakes up next he's immediately aware of the fingers gripping his own and also how _sore _he is. Feels like he's been hit by a bus… but then remembers it was, in fact, a car.

“Stupid plan…” he slurs out, catching the attention of whomever is holding his hand.

“Hey, chum.”

Bruce then. Though there's too much warmth in those words for Jason to quite disregard that this might all still be a dream.

Slowly, carefully, he turns his head in the direction of the voice and cracks open an eye, ignoring the grainy grit in them as he blinks away the sleep.

Not a dream.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks softly, still holding his hand like Jason's twelve again and when Bruce resembled something like an okay parent. For some reason, he finds he doesn't mind the contact.

“Sore.” He chuckles, and then remembers what a bad idea that is when he whines.

Bruce makes a sympathetic face and then explains, “You were bleeding internally. Frightened the shit out of me when you dropped into my arms. You've been out since yesterday. Leslie patched you right up, though.”

Jason doesn't know what part of that sentence to dissect, but goes with, “Language, Old Man.”

Bruce smiles at him and Jason finds himself smiling back.

“Guess you're rubbing off on me,” he says, allowing the softness to reach his eyes.

“Guess so.” Jason replies.

There's a beat of silence, then, “Don't think you're off the hook, though. Damian's already been grounded for life―I heard it was _his _idea to have you walk into incoming traffic.”

Jason chuckles again and whines in pain when the movement reminds him why he decided that was a bad move the first time round.

“Kid's trying to off me,” he snickers. “But hey, it worked so I'm not complaining.”

Bruce's brow crinkles at that.

“… I wish you had a little more self-preservation,” he says with that confused parent frown that Jason only sees rarely these days. “I wish you weren't so reckless.”

And he really doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything.

“Also,” Bruce continues a moment later, “You're grounded too.”

Jason smiles at that.

“You can't ground me, Old Man.” He replies. “I don't live here anymore, remember?”

Bruce shakes his head, and there's a new kind of smile on his lips that Jason doesn't like the look of.

_Oh no, _Jason recognises too late. _That's Bruce's knowing smile._

“Dick's already been to your safe house,” the older man is saying, the words washing over him and then sinking in as though Jason is made up of porous rock. “Your clothes are upstairs and your furniture is arriving Tuesday.”

With a roll of his eyes and a groan that is only mostly real, Jason loudly laments his fate only to earn the ever-coveted laugh of Bruce Wayne. Maybe coming home for a while wouldn't be such a bad idea…

His dad gives his hand one last squeeze before he's standing, bending over Jason's bedside to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. It's kind of… nice?

“And Dick's decided it's high time we take up family therapy as a group activity.”

Jason smirks, then says, “I think it's actually a good idea.”

“Me too.” Bruce chortles. “But I won't tell him that if you won't.”

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I was going to do Whumptober this year and I had 4 or 5 stories all written up, but then it all just got too overwhelming with all my uni assignments on top of that so I decided I didn't need the stress and dropped the challenge. Maybe next year. The silver lining in that though is that your girl learned she could do 5 assignments in 1 day. I am a seasoned professional.
> 
> If you got this far, comment ❤️ and I will give my sister one (1) hug per comment (because, when in doubt, do as Dick Grayson would do to his younger siblings).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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